


Winter, Late in Leaving

by MDJensen



Series: Winter, Late in Leaving: the series [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: A Few Musketeer OC's But Nobody Too Important, Gen, Head Injury, New Friendships, Porthos' Medallion, Savoy, Way Too Much Crying, Way Too Much Nitpicky Reasearch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of Porthos' life. But in a strange way, it had probably been one of the best as well. </p><p>Savoy-centric origin story, in which Aramis is grieving, Porthos is a saint, and Athos just kind of shows up, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for this chapter: blood, implied off-screen violence, vomit

It snowed heavily the day that Porthos approached Captain Treville about a commission in the Musketeers. It was not a bad omen, luckily, just one of many storms that winter. Treville accepted him eagerly, and Porthos gained the _fleur de lis_ on his sword arm just as 1625 began.

In the Court, a man had needed an independent streak. Foot soldiering had tried its best to beat that out of him, and after his allotted two years, Porthos was beyond eager to think freely once more. To challenge himself in this new regiment. His skills with a sword and musket were beyond sufficient, but it was his strength that had won him the more elite position. It was his strength Treville clearly coveted.

There was no way for Porthos to know that it was a different kind of strength he'd spend much of his time relying on those first few months.

He wasn't the only dark-skinned man in the regiment. But he was, it seemed, the only Court-raised musketeer, and this did matter-- possibly only to his own mind, but that alone was enough to make a difference.

It wasn't hard to make friends, exactly. He'd never had a problem with easy conversation, casual camaraderie; this held true, and within weeks he knew the names and characters of all of his fellow musketeers. But there was no one in particular, and Porthos felt that lacking. Back in the court, he and Charon had been brothers in all but blood; here, he had friends, but nothing to match that lost relationship. Ah,well-- perhaps nothing could.

Winter passed in a blur of training and sparring, longer and longer errands as Treville tested his limits, drinking around a fireplace or a game of cards as further storms raged outside. March arrived; the storms remained.

With a week left in Lent, a training mission departed for the border of Savoy; twenty-two musketeers of ranging experience levels were to camp in the forest, hone survival skills. That, coupled with men going on a few days' leave, nearly emptied out the garrison.

On Easter morning, Porthos dutifully attended Mass, taking up only four pews with the rest of the men who had no families to return to. Back at the garrison, Serge had cooked an abundant meal to end the Lenten fast. There were meats, stews, pastries and breads-- and endless bottles of wine-- and it seemed only two of the musketeers left declined to partake.

Treville stood together on the balcony overlooking the yard. With him was Athos, his unofficial second-in-command, a gloomy man who had earned his commission only months before Porthos but brought with him either previous military leadership or excellent schooling. Rumors varied. But whatever his background, Treville clearly counted him as a friend and respected his opinions-- earning him the dubious nickname of _petit capitaine_.

Presently Athos and Treville had their heads were together, brows creased. Porthos looked away from the balcony and nudged the man beside him, a soldier named Emile. “What's Treville worried about?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Emile didn't answer, but the man at his other side did. Henri and Emile had the kind of friendship that Porthos missed; they were hardly ever seen apart. There were a few such pairings in the garrison, and Porthos envied the lot of them. “The group at Savoy should have been back to Paris this morning,” Henri supplied. “He's trying to decide whether or not to send a rescue party just yet.”

“'sa bit hasty, innit?” Porthos mused, frowning despite himself. “Couple a' hours late-- could be anything.”

“Captain's got an extra sense about these things,” Emile put in. “You'll see soon enough; he knows when something's wrong.”

“Oh that's cheerful, Em,” Henri grouched.

“It's true!”

“Lot of men at that training,” Jacques put in, from across the table.

“Athos looks upset as well.”

“ _Petit_? He always does.”

“I don't see why it had to be Savoy. There's plenty of forests around.”

“Forests less likely to be full of Spanish.”

“No need for the Spanish-- the Savoyards hate us just as much.”

The atmosphere of the meal had dampened, and Porthos tried not to feel guilty for having introduced the subject. The way the discussion took off, though, it was clear that Treville's mood had been on everyone's minds already. They still ate the puddings that Serge presented-- but with slightly less enthusiasm than before.

When the meal had ended, Treville and Athos joined them in the yard. Porthos wondered if he should rise to his feet as the captain came to the table to address them, but nobody else had, so he stayed seated.

“You all know the situation,” Treville began, blunt as ever, and the men nodded. “The training group should have returned by now. We shall give them the night, and if they haven't arrived by sunup tomorrow, I shall lead a party to investigate. Emile, Henri, Arnaud, Porthos, Jacques. Be ready to ride out at first light, though let us pray you won't need to.”

Porthos nodded again, and glanced around the table; the men Treville had named were nearly a quarter of the musketeers still present. The thought of leaving so few men in Paris made him uneasy. Perhaps he had not found a brother among his regiment, but only months after his arrival, Porthos found he cared for the others much more deeply than he'd have imagined. So now he was worried. He was worried for the understaffed garrison, for the men at Savoy; worried for what their rescue party would find if they indeed were deployed. It was a poor ending to his first holiday as a musketeer.

The men did not return from Savoy. Dawn found Porthos shivering in the yard, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Arnaud in an attempt to stay warm. When was the last time winter had been so late in leaving? He couldn't remember. Treville and Athos joined the men as the sleepy stablehands finished seeing to the horses. There were eleven: seven to ride and four to carry supplies. Porthos couldn't help but notice that those four extra horses would not be nearly enough to carry back twenty-two men, if there was in fact the need for a rescue. Maybe Treville thought the men were fine, still had their own horses-- or maybe he thought they wouldn't be riding back at all.

Porthos shivered anew.

“We'll take the same path they took,” Treville announced, “and hope to encounter them along the way. The border is twenty hours' hard ride. The plan, as it stands, is to make well over half of it today, camp for the night, and arrive at the training grounds with plenty of light left tomorrow.”

Though March was coming to a close, it was hellishly cold as they rode. The day passed in a blur of trying to stay as warm, and as cheerful, as they could, while snow fell and stopped again and Treville visibly worried at the head of the group. They made camp at sunset. Porthos drew a watch for the following night, and so lay down with the promise of a full night's sleep; still, he stared up at the sky for at least an hour before dropping off.

The first morning of April began just as the last of March had. They ate quickly then, shivering, loaded their horses and set off for the border of Savoy. But there was a difference, Porthos mused. Today they'd find why the men were late in returning-- find out if they were delayed by some innocent mishap. Or otherwise.

“We're nearly there,” Athos called, just after they'd finished a hurried in-saddle lunch. He was consulting a neatly-folded map. “It shouldn't be more than half a _lieue_ this way.” Porthos found his heart beginning to pound as they made their way down the thickly-wooded road.

And suddenly, the trees parted.

In the clearing: blood on snow, gunmarks on trees. Upended pots, ravaged tents.

And bodies. Bodies. _B_ _odies._

The massacre was endless, a horrific scene of violence and loss. Porthos felt his own hot breath gusting over his fingers; it was only then that he realized he'd clamped a hand to his mouth in dismay.

Their horses halted in unison. To his right, Henri gave a choked-off cry, dismounted, and was sick. Instinctively, Porthos turned to face his commanding officer; Treville's face betrayed no emotion, but his hands trembled slightly on the reigns. At his side, Athos' eyes were wide, his mouth fallen open.

This was beyond their worst case scenario. This was a nightmare come to life.

Twenty-two musketeers had come to Savoy. And twenty-two musketeers, it seemed, would not be returning.

Seeming to sense his men's eyes on him, Treville dismounted. The others did the same, still looking to him for instruction. “Take five minutes,” he said evenly. “But no more. We must identify these poor souls and set up a guard before nightfall.”

Porthos wasn't sure if it was a kindness to allow them a moment of grief, or a cruelty to keep them from the distraction of work. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to argue. His stomach was sick, his heart pounding in his chest, so he took the five minutes. He took the time that Treville was offering, to give into the overwhelming sorrow.

Porthos scanned over the bodies littering the clearing, every tallymark sending a fresh wave of grief through his core. He knew these men. He knew every one.

The man sprawled beside the tree was Vincent, who'd been the first to make an overture of friendship to the dark-skinned, Court-raised new recruit.

The man who'd died with a musket in both hands was Pascal, whom Porthos was helping to practice his hand-to-hand.

Georges was beside an upended soup pot. Bernard had taken a ball to the shoulder.

Big Jules. Little Jules. Etienne. Phillipe.

Worst of all, there were bodies whose faces were unrecognizable.

Porthos felt the sting of tears, and turned away from the scene before he could lose himself completely. He drew a few slow breaths, and the feeling receded.

He looked around him. Jacques was standing still as a statue, hardly seeming to breathe; Arnaud had fallen beside Etienne's body, weeping helplessly. Emile was crouched at Henri's side while Henri continued to retch.

Treville, on the other hand, had ignored his own advice and gotten right to work; he and Athos were huddled together, speaking close and low, papers passing between their hands.

All at once, Porthos didn't want those five minutes after all. He didn't begrudge the other men their motionlessness, but he himself needed to get to _work._

Needed to bring them home.

“Captain.” Treville looked up as Porthos approached. “How should we start?”

Treville seemed to assess him for a moment; Porthos could feel eyes scanning him, searching for signs of denial, signs that his new musketeer didn't comprehend the situation. In response to the gentle probing, Porthos drew himself up. “I appreciate your giving us a minute, sir, but I'd honestly rather get going.”

Another scan, and then Treville nodded. “Understood. Athos has a list of the twenty-two musketeers assigned to this mission. Our first task is to-- to count.” Athos' hand found Treville's shoulder as the captain's voice shook for the first time that day. “We must confirm the deaths of all twenty-two men on this list. If any are unaccounted for, we must search for them. And two of you must set off immediately for Paris, to return with carts. But Porthos, I think you'd do more good on this front.” Porthos nodded and turned to Athos.

“I'll, eh-- go over the right side,” Porthos muttered. “If you'll take the left.” Athos nodded.

It didn't take long. Though his instincts pleaded with him to settle the bodies more comfortably, to shut their eyes and cross their arms, Porthos forced himself to merely identify them. If any men were missing-- possibly alive-- their safety took priority. For the same reason, he fought hard to keep the tears back as they tried to swell again and again; there would be time for mourning later.

Porthos knew most of them on sight. The few that were too bloodied, he quickly recognized by scars or tattoos, or well-known bits of clothing. Once finished, he went to Athos, and they ran over the list; the quill trembled in Athos' hand as he marked off the names.

In the end, only two remained.

Walking close together, they returned to Treville; he and Emile flanked Henri, and were speaking to him gently. Jacques and Arnaud, it seemed, had been sent back for the carts.

“How many?” Treville asked, the moment he saw them approach.

“Twenty,” Athos said. The word did not seem to carry on the wind as a voice should have; instead it hovered bleakly in the space above their heads.

“Twenty,” Treville repeated. “Who?”

“Marsac and Aramis.”

The second name must have been clear to all the moment that the first was uttered. Marsac and Aramis were another pair like Emile and Henri-- like Porthos and Charon, once upon a time-- and it only made since that wherever they were, they were together.

But where were they? Had they survived somehow, gone to seek help or shelter? Had they simply died elsewhere? Or had they been taken? Porthos shivered. There were few things worse than death, but being an enemy's prisoner could easily be one of them.

“Find them,” Treville said, simply.

Porthos, Athos, Emile, and Henri spread out in four directions; Porthos went east. The trees rapidly grew thicker. He struggled to keep track of where he'd checked and where he hadn't, but there were no signs of anything anywhere: no musketeers, no raiders, no Aramis or Marsac.

Nothing but snow and trees, trees and snow.

Another man, a man who'd grown up somewhere else, might have found it peaceful, might have taken a moment's respite in the utter solitude so close by the scene of destruction. Porthos, who hadn't left Paris until old enough to grow a beard, shivered.

Then: “Here!” It was Henri's voice. “Oh my god-- he's alive!”

It was coming from somewhere left of him; the voice was faint, but Porthos was fairly sure of that much. He raced through the trees-- and then he found them.

Aramis sat, propped against a tree, a haphazard bandage tied about his head. Dried blood coated the right side of his face. He was moving scarcely more than the corpses in the clearing, but thin clouds of breath issued from his mouth.

Henri was crouched at his side. He'd laid his cloak over Aramis' lap and was rubbing the man's arms almost violently, trying to bring him warmth. Aramis wasn't reacting.

Porthos stripped his own jacket-- he didn't have his cloak, never liked to ride in it much-- and added it against Aramis' chest. Aramis only stared off into the forest, back towards the clearing. But his face came alive again as another set of footsteps crunched towards them.

“C'ptain,” Aramis wheezed. Treville was at the man's side in an instant, kneeling beside him, holding his face in both hands. Henri and Porthos moved respectfully back.

“I'm here, _mon fils_ ,” Treville soothed, rubbing his thumbs along Aramis' cheekbones. “You're safe now.”

“Tried t'keep the rav'ns away.” The man's voice was urgent. “Shouted. Hit th'm. But thissis where-- thissis where he left me. So I wanted t'come back here.”

“Who left you, Aramis?”

“Marsac,” Aramis whispered. “He went tha' way.” He pointed off into the trees.

Porthos' gut clenched.

“Dunno why,” Aramis continued. “I tried t'keep the ravens away, Captain. Fr'm the bodies.”

“I know you did, Aramis. And you did well,” Treville said firmly. “Aramis, was Marsac hurt?”

And that was the question, wasn't it? Was Marsac to be found as yet another corpse, who'd stumbled off into the forest so that his best friend wouldn't have to watch him die? Or was he a deserter?

Which was worse?

“No. He wasn' hurt. Jus' left.”

Porthos nails dug into his palms as his hands became fists; Henri inhaled audibly.

“I told him not to,” Aramis bleated, but Treville moved a finger to his lips before he could say any more.

“You've done all you could, _fils_. We're taking you home now. Do you think you can stand?” Aramis nodded. With Treville's help he climbed to his feet, and took to them better than Porthos had imagined he would. Slowly, but without stumbling, he let Treville lead him to the horses.

Henri and Porthos caught each other's eyes, united briefly in the same dark expression; they retrieved their outerwear wordlessly, though Porthos' blood had grown so hot with anger that he hardly wanted his jacket any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to dialogue in _The Good Soldier_ , the massacre at Savoy took place on Good Friday, which was March 28 in 1625. Easter, therefore, fell on March 30. Porthos and the others departed Paris early on March 31, and arrived the afternoon of April 1. According to google, it is not unreasonable that a horse could keep moving at 25km per hour, making the 500km journey to the border of Savoy a roughly 20 hour trip. Anyone covering that distance could therefore do so in under two days, assuming they were fit to keep moving.
> 
> A _lieue_ , or _lieue ancienne_ , is an archaic French unit of measure roughly equivalent to 3.25km. It would be translated as “league”, but is not equivalent to that modern measurement.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: medical procedure/blood; vomit; panic attacks (probably not technically, but close enough that I wanted to tag it)

Emile and Athos had returned to camp. They looked shocked, but stayed silent, as Porthos, Henri, and Treville arrived with Aramis in tow. That shock fell away, turned to fury, as Treville spoke. “Marsac has abandoned his commission,” he spat. “Our priority now is to see Aramis to safety. I will ride for Paris with him; the rest of you, do what you can here, and guard the site until the others return with the carts.”

“Captain,” Emile began. “Shouldn't we go after Marsac? He should face justice for--”

“Our priority is Aramis,” Treville snapped. Maybe that meant they couldn't spare the manpower, or maybe it meant _shut the fuck up about Marsac while Aramis can hear_. The captain helped the injured man onto one of the spare horses, then mounted his own.

“Be on the highest alert,” he announced. “These woods-- this area was meant to be safe. But clearly the Spanish have raiding parties about. Do not let your guard down. Men should arrive with the carts within four days. Take your brothers back to Paris as quickly as you can.” In the saddle, Aramis swayed; he gripped tightly at his horse's neck, face pale.

“I'll rejoin you once Aramis is seen to,” Treville said finally, then he and Aramis set off down the trail.

When they had disappeared into the trees, Athos turned to Porthos. “Wait five minutes, and then follow them,” he said quietly. “Treville may want a moment alone with Aramis, but he should not be the only able-bodied man escorting him.”

Porthos nodded.

He spent a few minutes helping Emile and Henri as they worked to move the bodies into a neat line; it was infinitely more painful than identifying them had been. Porthos was beyond relieved when Athos caught his eye and nodded. Moving a bit faster than they themselves had, he followed Treville and Aramis' path into the forest, back towards home.

He'd barely ridden for a minute before coming upon a heartrending scene.

A splatter of vomit marred an otherwise pristine snowdrift, ugly against the perfect whiteness, sending up steam into the frigid air.

Beside it, two men were on their knees.

The captain was holding Aramis to his body, cradling him, shushing him. Treville's eyes were wet, his hands trembling. And Aramis was wailing feebly against his captain's chest, fingers gripping desperately at the fabric of his cloak.

Porthos halted his horse and stood, frozen. This was not a moment to interrupt. But when Treville looked up at him and nodded tightly, he felt it safe to dismount and approach them. Aramis did not lift his head at the new arrival, though he did fall silent.

“It's the blow to his head,” Treville fretted, as Porthos came to his side. “He can't ride. He can't keep his stomach.”

_The blow to his head and a fair bit of trauma_ , Porthos didn't say. Instead he said, “Athos sent me. Case you needed another man.”

“We need to get him to shelter. He can't ride for Paris like this. He needs a surgeon.”

“We'll take him to Belley,” Porthos replied immediately, grateful that the answer came to him so easily. “It should be less than an hour's journey, and it's safely behind French borders.”

Treville nodded at once. “Belley,” he muttered, “I should have thought--”

“None of us is thinkin' straight right now, Captain,” Porthos offered, voice low.

“That's true,” Treville murmured. Then he shook himself off and spoke in his typical voice. “An old friend of mine lives in Belley, as it happens. But that's still an hour's ride.”

“He can ride with me. My horse is big enough. And maybe it'll be easier on him if he can close his eyes a bit.” Though he didn't know Aramis well, it was hard not to feel protective of the man. And perhaps a bit sympathetic to his loneliness, as well. “In fact,” he was continuing, without quite thinking it through, “if you're comfortable leavin' him with me, you could return to the camp, Captain. Another man to guard it. If you're comfortable.”

“You could ask me my thoughts.” Aramis' voice was hoarse and small, but angry underneath. Porthos stopped, a bit embarrassed.

“You're right, of course,” Treville said at once, placatingly. “Are you comfortable with Porthos taking you to Belley? You need to see a surgeon faster than we can get you Paris.” Aramis turned to look, as though needing a face to put with Porthos' name; seeing him, he nodded once.

“Yes. That sounds better than riding all day.”

“I'll go smoothly,” Porthos promised, wanting to say something but not knowing what. Aramis didn't respond. He was busy climbing to his feet, with Treville's help; halfway up he stopped and clapped a hand to his mouth, but then recovered and kept going.

Porthos tugged his horse forward and swung himself onto the saddle. Treville helped Aramis get his foot into the stirrup, then kept him steady as Porthos pulled him up in front of him. Aramis fit neatly in the saddle's extra space.

“The name of my friend is Marie de Boinge,” Treville was saying, as he tethered Aramis' horse to Porthos' own. “Once you're within the city, ask anyone for the old winery. Just to the east of it, there's an inn. Marie should be there; she'll help you find a surgeon. And one more thing: you're safe with Marie, but you best not ride as musketeers. Give me your pauldron.” Porthos slipped the leatherware from his arm and handed it to Treville, who stowed it in a saddlebag.

“Godspeed,” Treville said, and they departed.

Porthos didn't quite know the way to Belley, but he knew his way back to the signpost they'd passed with that name carved into it. He found it quickly and set off where it pointed. There were at least two hours of light left, which was good-- but it had begun to snow again, which was less so.

Aramis was quiet on the ride. But after a while, it became clear that he was weeping; the soft sounds were not quite lost to the clatter of hooves. Porthos did his best to ignore it. Aramis was a private man, and could hardly appreciate such an invasion-- even as he began to tremble in their shared saddle, even as his shoulders began to hitch only inches from Porthos' face.

The harder the snow came, the harder Aramis shook, until there was a legitimate risk of him falling from the horse. Privacy be damned; Porthos couldn't ignore this.

His free arm sat limply against Aramis' hip; without speaking, he lifted it, and wrapped it a bit more tightly around the man's waist.

Aramis broke down sobbing.

More panicked than he would have expected, Porthos pulled the the horses to a stop and dropped the reigns. With both hands free now he held Aramis tightly to his chest, even as Aramis tried to curl forward with grief.

“He left me,” Aramis was panting. “Oh god, oh my god-- he fucking _left me there_.”

“Shh,” Porthos murmured, “you'll be sick again, Aramis.” He brought one hand up to brush against the man's face, mindful of his injured temple. Beneath his fingers, the muscles contorted. “Shh,” he tried again. “C'mon, c'mon.”

“ _You left me alone_ ,” Aramis choked out. Porthos couldn't tell if the man knew of his presence or not, so wrapped up in the moment that his best friend had propped him against a tree, tied a bandage around his bleeding head, and left him to the mercy of winter and bloodloss and loneliness. _Marsac and Aramis_. _Who else would it have been?_

No musketeer in their right mind would ever have considered this possibility, that Marsac would abandon his own brother for any reason other than death.

“You're not alone now,” Porthos whispered. Aramis gave no hint that he had heard, wrapped up as he was in his weeping, sour breath making turbulent clouds in the air. “You're not alone now,” he said again, fumbling blindly to wipe the tears from Aramis' cheeks.

“Marsac--?”

“It's Porthos,” Porthos said firmly. “The big one, eh? I cheated you out of a livre the first time we played cards together. I was sittin' on the ace a' hearts. Our horses keep beside one another in the stables. It's Porthos. You know me. And I'm with you. You're not alone, because _I'm here_.”

Tension eased from Aramis' body, and bit by bit he allowed himself to be pulled backwards. The back of his head knocked solidly against Porthos' shoulder and remained there. Aramis lay against Porthos' chest, suddenly still but for the quiet gasping.

And Porthos held him. Kept his arms around the man's body and held him, pressing his chest to Aramis' back, leaning his cheek against the crown of Aramis' head. From this angle, he could finally see the man's face. It was pale, and it shone with sweat, but it had slackened, gone still. At length, half-frozen fingers came up, covered his own. “Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

“At your service,” Porthos replied, and took hold of Aramis' hands.

Snow had piled thickly on their knees and boots before Aramis stirred again, sitting up in the saddle and wiping his face on a filthy sleeve. “Let's keep moving,” he croaked. No apology-- good. Porthos had been bracing himself for one, rehearsing how to tell Aramis that it wasn't necessary. Just as well he didn't have to.

Porthos kept his free arm around Aramis' waist as they rode, though neither of them commented on it. The sky was just growing orange as they made it to Belley. It was an easy thing to locate the old winery, and to find the inn beside it; Porthos dismounted and helped Aramis down as well, and a stablehand came forward for their horses.

Aramis staggered as they made their way into the front room; weeping seemed to have used up all the energy he'd had to spend. Now he could hardly keep his eyes open. Porthos stayed at his side, arm hovering around him, but the man favored bracing himself against walls and bits of furniture, and Porthos found it best not to argue.

A woman of perhaps fifty years was behind the counter of a small bar. Leaving Aramis to lean against a table, Porthos approached her, trying to look less anxious than he felt. “Madam?” She raised her head and smiled thinly. “My friend and I are looking for Marie de Boinge.”

“I'm Madam de Boinge,” she replied. Her voice, like her expression, wasn't unfriendly-- but wasn't terribly welcoming either.

“My name is Porthos,” Porthos offered. “Friend of a man named Treville. He said you'd know him?”

“Jean de Treville?” The woman's disposition shifted at once; her face lit up like a lantern. “You're musketeers, then? Please, call me Marie!”

“We are musketeers, Marie,” Porthos replied, “and my friend Aramis was badly wounded in a siege near the Savoyard border. The captain said you might be able to find us a surgeon?”

“Of course! Please, bring your friend closer to the fire.”

The realization that help was finally coming hit Porthos hard, and his own knees shook a bit as he helped Aramis walk. The man no longer protested his aid. Porthos settled him by the hearth and watched as Marie conversed with the same stablehand he'd seen before.

The lad disappeared, and Marie came to their side. “A surgeon is on the way,” she assured Porthos. “But please, _monsieur_ , was Jean there for the attack? Was he injured at all?”

“No, the captain's fine. He wasn't there for it and neither was I.”

“What happened?”

Porthos looked over at Aramis, but his eyes were closed and his head was tilting down as he succumbed to the comfort of the fire. “We're not sure who attacked,” Porthos began, keeping his voice low. “The captain thinks Spanish raiders. But there were-- there were twenty-two men, out on a training mission. Due home on Easter morning. Treville led a party of us to find them when they didn't return.” His chest seized suddenly, and he had to cough before he could continue. “Twenty musketeers were slaughtered,” he continued, a bit hoarsely. “One deserted. He was Aramis' friend, and he left him behind.”

Marie's face was pale, her expression horrified. “Poor, poor man,” she crooned, glancing at Aramis. “It's good that you found him in time.”

“Yeah,” Porthos said, trying to get his heart to agree as readily as his voice had. It was hard to see any goodness in this, anywhere at all.

Marie straightened abruptly as the door swung open. The stablehand hurried in, accompanied by a man a bit younger than Marie, toting a surgeon's leather satchel.

“Aldo!” Marie rushed to the man's side and pulled him towards the fire. “These men are members of the king's musketeers. Aramis here was taken in an ambush by the Spanish.”

“Hm. Someday, perhaps, your countries will keep hands off one another, _sì_? And _Italia_ , while you're at it. My name is Cagnatto,” he said, turning now to Porthos. “Help me move your friend to a bed, please. Marie? A room?”

“Aramis? There's a surgeon here to see to your wound.” Porthos shook the man's arm gently; he frowned and hunched away without opening his eyes. “Aramis, can you hear me? Can you walk a bit more?” There came a motion that may have been Aramis shaking his head, or may simply have been a meaningless reaction to being disturbed. Either way, the answer seemed clear.

Porthos scooped the man up as gently as he could, one arm below his knees and one around his shoulders. Aramis' head lolled for a moment, then came to rest against Porthos' neck. He followed the others, who had gone into the second room down the hall; inside there was a table, two chairs, a bathtub, and two small beds. Porthos laid Aramis on the one closest to the door.

“Marie has told me all she knows,” Cagnatto said as Porthos entered. “But do you know when the ambush came? In other words, do you know the age of his wounds?

“Eh, no,” Porthos admitted. Judging by the bodies, it had been a few days at least. “Couple of days? They would have set out for Paris on Good Friday afternoon, so then or sooner.” The surgeon nodded. Warmth was filling the room as Marie stoked the fire; once it came to life, she hurried out again.

Cagnatto had pulled a sponge from his bag. He wet it with a waterskin and held it under Aramis' nose, and Aramis' body relaxed deeper into sleep. “Have you checked him all over? Is it only his head?”

“We didn't check him,” Porthos replied, feeling guilty. “As soon as we found him, we left to come here. He vomited on the ride,” he added, not sure if that was relevant or not. Cagnatto nodded, pulling the bandage from Aramis' head. Then he seized a pair of scissors from his kit and began to hack away the matted hair covering the wound. Clumps fell unceremoniously to the floor. But as careless as he was with his patient's vanity was as careful as he was with the wound itself. Porthos watched as he prodded over it gently.

Marie returned with a pile of blankets and a few waterskins; she thrust the skins into Porthos' arms. They were warm, and despite himself Porthos shivered. He laid the skins against Aramis, one on his chest, one on his belly, and one on his legs; then Marie covered him carefully with the blankets.

“Take off his boots and put a skin to his toes,” Cagnatto directed absently, and Porthos did so. Aramis' toes were bright pink, but he was glad to see they lacked any grey spots of dead flesh. He moved the skin from his legs to cover his feet. “I am not surprised that he has had nausea,” the surgeon went on. “The flesh was not cut; it split when something struck it. There is bruising here, which may also have affected his brain. This causes a man to become disoriented, and often causes discomfort in the stomach as well. He should have been seen to immediately,” Cagnatto added, frowning.

Porthos bristled. “I brought him straight to you. Like I said.”

“Hush, _figlio_ , I know this. You have done well.” The surgeon looked up and they locked eyes; all at once Porthos saw the genuine kindness beneath the man's direct attitude. Some of the tension in him released.

“But the infection is under what has already begun to heal,” Cagnatto continued, turning back to Aramis. “I shall have to re-open it, I think. Clean it well, and stitch it properly. You are friends, yes? Would you like to hold his hand?”

Porthos' heart sank. “He's still awake?”

“No no, he sleeps. But I like to think that our friends know us even in slumber, yes?” He glanced back up; his smile was warm and honest, not to mention the only real smile that Porthos had seen since Paris. It didn't seem the time to mention that he and Aramis hardly knew one another at all.

“All right,” he consented. Aramis' hands were under the pile of blankets, so he tugged one out and held it carefully between both of his own. The fingers were still painfully cold.

“I'm opening the wound,” Cagnatto announced. Porthos wasn't sure if the surgeon was talking to him, or to himself, but nevertheless he looked up. A small knife was positioned at Aramis' temple, and as Porthos watched, Cagnatto pressed it to the damaged skin.

Blood and pus erupted freely from the wound, seeping down Aramis' cheek, collecting in his beard. The smell of festering flesh filled the room. Porthos fought back a gag, holding Aramis' hand all the tighter as he himself was suddenly assaulted by the horrid images of littered bodies, half-preserved by the cold but slowly rotting nevertheless.

“Are you with me, _figlio_?” Cagnatto asked. Porthos just nodded, afraid to open his mouth. “Good. I'm going to wash it now, then I will sew it closed,” the surgeon continued. Porthos supposed it was kind of him, narrating his actions. But in reality, he was doing all he could to ignore the sights and sounds and _smells_ of the surgery going on before him. He unclasped his hands from Aramis', and instead began to massage each finger one by one.

In his sleep, Aramis was breathing evenly, but Porthos still found himself beginning to worry for the man. Head wounds were no trifling matter, and neither were infections. Would Savoy claim a twenty-first soldier? Would truly none but Marsac the coward survive its horrors in the end?

The thought, if possible, made him sicker than the wound. He moaned softly, unable to stop himself.

“I'm tying the thread.” Cagnatto's voice broke through his daze. He must have been inside his own head for longer than he'd thought, because the wound was closed now, and his own hands were motionless on Aramis' fingers. “ _Va bene, questo è tutto._ I'm finished. Go.”

Porthos didn't need a second invitation; he lurched back from the bed, and stumbled his way out of the room towards the front door of the inn. He didn't let himself heave until he'd made it to the cobbles. Then, clutching miserably at his belly, Porthos vomited until nothing was left inside him. It was snowing once more. He tried to take comfort in the calmness of it, but his mind would not be settled-- nor would his stomach. He retched again and again as the white flakes fell.

Porthos was shaking when he finally felt ready to return to Aramis' side. Cagnatto smiled warmly once more as he slipped back into the room, and held out a cup of wine. “Marie thought this might help you, _figlio_. As a medical man, I heartily concur.”

Porthos' already-stripped defenses collapsed under the surgeon's kindness. Tears came at last, in a sudden rush.

Cagnatto was at his side in an instant, pressing the wine into his hand. “Drink,” he said, firmly.

“Thanks,” Porthos whispered; he raised it to his trembling lips and swallowed it all in one go. Cagnatto took the empty vessel. Then he laid a steady hand on Porthos' arm, as Porthos wiped his cheeks and sniffed a bit for good measure.

“You could sleep beside him,” Cagnatto suggested, after a minute or two. “In fact, it might be best. He will have a familiar face to see if he wakes in the night. And if there is trouble, you can come and fetch me.” He really seemed to think that Porthos and Aramis were the best of friends, Porthos realized. It made Porthos want to tell him the whole story-- the twenty dead musketeers, left out to rot; how he wasn't honestly sure what he was doing taking over Aramis' care; how the only person Aramis wanted was the same person who'd abandoned him heartlessly. It would be nice to tell someone who'd listen.

Instead he nodded, and thanked the surgeon again before settling himself on the floor. There was a bed on the other side of the room, with a blanket and pillow that he could have taken; Porthos only remembered this once he was already laying down. He could have gotten up again, but he stayed.

Aramis was here, and the other side of the room seemed awfully far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for the kind comments. This is my first multichapter fic in ages and you're making me feel great about it! I really do appreciate the encouragement, and Porthos has been a great character to step inside of. Please keep the feedback coming, especially anything you think I can improve!
> 
> Notes for this chapter: Belley is indeed a town in France near the northern part of the border with Savoy; I'm not 100% sure of how the border was drawn in the 1600's, but it seemed close enough. 
> 
> Given what we know about Treville from _The Good Soldier_ \-- which Porthos, of course, would not have known here-- I hope that the captain's actions and behavior are reasonable. He is dealing with crazy guilt and simultaneously trying to prevent his men from asking too many questions, but Porthos has no reason to think that he's not just upset.
> 
> It was pointed out to me on fanfiction.net that I forgot to give translations of any French used in the first chapter. I generally avoid using any other languages in ways integral to the plot, so that you guys don't have to actually scroll away from where you are to get the translation while reading. Nevertheless, I should definitely provide them anyway!
> 
> French  
>  _(mon) fils_ = (my) son  
>  _petit capitaine_ = little captain
> 
> Italian  
>  _sì_ = yes  
>  _figlio_ = son  
>  _Va bene, questo è tutto._ = All right, that's all.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: blood, but only a tiny bit

Porthos was absolutely ravenous when he awoke. He hadn't eaten in nearly a day, and last night he'd expelled, quite violently, what little had still been in him then. Despite this, he pushed himself up slowly. The principle reason was the terrible stiffness he'd acquired from sleeping on the floor-- he was out of practice, accustomed now to a bed or at least a bedroll on grass. But, apart from his aches, he found himself more than a little hesitant to face the day as well.

The immediate danger seemed to have passed; he'd gotten Aramis to Belley and had a surgeon see to him. But today's task was in a way more daunting. What was there to say in the wake of a tragedy such as this one? Not to mention that they hardly knew one another. What, exactly, was one supposed to _do_ when a man had been through what Aramis had been through?

Porthos shook his head. Lying on the floor, he reminded himself, was doing precisely nothing and helping precisely nobody. Grunting, he pushed himself to his feet and glanced over at Aramis.

Aramis' eyes were open.

“Oh! _Salut_ ,” Porthos greeted, hoping that he sounded less startled than he was. Aramis's face was blank, as though still asleep, and with the eyes open he looked unfortunately-- _dead_. Only his moving chest said otherwise.

“When did you wake up?”

No response.

“How's your head feelin'?”

No response. Maybe yes-or-no questions were a better idea? Porthos searched for one, and suddenly his own bladder reminded him of what it should be.

“Do you, eh, need the bed pan?”

Nothing happened at first, but then Aramis shook his head.

The dizzy relief of an actual reply was quickly overwhelmed by its content; if Aramis did not need the pan, two things were possible. Either he had soiled the bed, which would do nothing for his morale, or he was dehydrated, and badly. There was no smell of urine, so Porthos suspected the latter.

“You need to drink something. I'll be right back--”

“Please,” Aramis rasped; his eyes moved at last, locking onto Porthos'. “Please,” he said again.

“Yeah, I'm goin' right now. Do you think you could eat something, too?”

Aramis' face crumpled. “Hey,” Porthos exclaimed, and all at once he found himself perched beside the man on the narrow bed. “'s all right. It's all right. You don't have to eat just yet. But you do need to drink some water, _mon ami_.”

Aramis shivered, and shook his head almost violently. “Please. Don't leave me alone,” he said hoarsely.

_Oh_.

“All right,” Porthos consented. He was hungrier than he'd been in ages, and his bladder was fit to burst; but it was as Treville had told them, all those long hours ago. Aramis was the priority. “Eh, are you warm now?” Aramis nodded. “I'll take the skins off you, then?” Another nod. “All right.”

Aramis shivered as Porthos folded the blankets back and quickly removed the cooled skins from his body. Then he put a hand to his arm to test his temperature. If anything, he was a bit hot now, and Porthos prayed that this was from the excess of blankets and not an impending fever. He replaced the blankets and smoothed them down.

Aramis closed his eyes again, but clearly remained awake; there was little for Porthos to do but sit fretfully at his side.

It was no small mercy when the door cracked open, and Cagnatto shuffled sleepily inside. “ _B_ _uongiorno, figlio_ ,” he called, coming to the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

When Aramis didn't reply, Porthos answered for him. “He woke up and he was talkin' a little. He hasn't said much, though.”

“I was asking after you,” the surgeon corrected, pointing a finger at Porthos, and Porthos nearly laughed in relief. 

“I'm all right.” _Could do with a trip to the washroom and the restaurant_ , he wanted to add, but Aramis didn't need to know that. Didn't need to feel badly about it. 

But Cagnatto, it seemed, could tell. “I would like a few minutes with Aramis,” he said, turning to his patient. “Do you think you could leave us? Not for long, I assure you.”

“Yeah. That's fine. Eh, Aramis,” he added, knowing he should, “that all right?”

“Yes.” Aramis opened his eyes.

“I'll be back soon,” Porthos promised, and left.

He relieved himself and washed his face, pausing for a moment by the basin to simply breathe. His mind was buzzing with thoughts like flies. He splashed himself with water again before leaving, just because he could.

In the restaurant, Marie was busy with her other guests. Nevertheless, she took a moment to ask after Aramis, and then, a bit more subtly, after Porthos himself. Porthos hoped he wasn't flushing. He knew that his dramatic exit from the inn could not have been overlooked last night, and in the morning light it was more embarrassing than it had been at the time. He was fine, he assured her. He didn't quite know what to say about Aramis, and so simply reported that he was awake and had spoken, and that he hoped to get him to drink and eat.

“You first,” Marie said pointedly. Porthos could hardly argue when she told him to sit and returned to him a few minutes later with a plate of meats, cheese, and breads. Porthos briefly wondered how they were going to pay for such hospitality. But he was worrying about enough at the moment to add anything else, and so decided to leave that issue to Treville.

He fairly well polished off the plate. His had never been an appetite dampened by grief, unlike many others'; in fact, it was a comfort to focus on something as familiar as food. Porthos felt worlds stronger after his meal. He went to the stable to retrieve the satchels that he hadn't bothered with the night before, and took a moment to glance around the street. Snow was fresh on the cobbles, but was no longer falling.

Back in the room, someone had drawn Aramis a bath and brought him a towel; he was sitting a bit awkwardly in the water. Cagnatto was in a chair beside the tub, but facing away.

“Ah, good,” the surgeon remarked, as Porthos entered. “I am sure your friend will be more comfortable with you than with me. I have checked him for other wounds and found nothing serious. There is fever, but it is light and should not cause trouble. Everything's going well, but send for me if you need.” He clapped his hand on Porthos' shoulder as he left.

Staring up at him from a curtain of wet hair, Aramis shrugged haplessly. Though he seemed more aware than he had this morning, there was still an air of misery about him. Naked now, his body displayed its abuse much more clearly. His arms and chest bore a legion of small cuts, some of them bleeding freshly after having been cleaned, and he sunk into himself with the gauntness of sudden weight loss. His head was unbandaged. Try as he might, Porthos could not remember if it had been so since Cagnatto's first visit; in any case, the stitched wound was visible now, surrounded by a patch of mangled hair.

“How are you feelin'?” Porthos asked carefully.

“All right.” Aramis voice was gravelly but did not shake. “My stomach still aches, but my head is better.”

“Do you have clean clothes to put on when you get out?”

“Mm. Treville gave me some. But do you have a mirror?

“I should, why?”

Aramis gestured to the destroyed section of his bangs. “I'd like to cut my hair. _Signore_ Cagnatto lent me his scissors.”

“Mm. Least he could do, since it's him who ruined it,” Porthos teased. To his delight, Aramis smiled in return.

Porthos located the shaving kit in his satchel, removed the mirror, and handed it to Aramis.

It was possibly unwise. The mirror shook in his fingers as he stared at his reflection with wide eyes. Aramis was captivated, and disgusted. It must have been the first time since the massacre that he'd seen himself, Porthos realized.

“There's-- blood. In my beard.”

“It's not that bad,” Porthos soothed.

“It's dried in it,” Aramis squeaked, and he dropped the mirror to scrub at his face with frantic hands. It splashed dully in the water.

“Hey,” Porthos said, coming to his side. He tugged Aramis' hands away, gently. “Just-- shave it, yeah? While you're at it?” Porthos suggested. Aramis said nothing, still breathing hard. “It won't take long to grow back,” Porthos reassured him. “Eh, how long have you worn a beard?”

“Sixteen or seventeen,” Aramis replied quietly.

“Seventeen years?” Porthos teased, feigning shock. “Precocious, were you?”

It was possibly the least funny joke ever, but Aramis gave another little smile and clarified, “I've worn a beard since I was sixteen or seventeen years old.”

“Hm. Well, you'll have it back soon enough. Yeah?”

Aramis nodded dutifully. He fished out the mirror and out held it up to Porthos, who dried it on his trousers before positioning it at eye level. He passed Aramis the blade from his kit. Moving slowly, deliberately, Aramis brought it to his damp skin and pressed down.

His hand trembled; the blade slipped. Fresh blood trickled down his jaw, made abundant by the water on his skin. Aramis swore. Unexpectedly queasy at the little cut, Porthos put down the mirror and reached up to steady Aramis' hand with his own.

“Don't you dare fucking offer to do it for me,” Aramis hissed, pushing Porthos away. The venom in his voice was sudden, and it stung. Porthos had done nothing but try his hardest, and though he knew Aramis was understandably raw in his reactions, he couldn't help but grow angry in kind.

“All right. Bleed yourself again, if that's what you'd prefer!” Porthos bit the inside of his cheek and made himself settle down before continuing. “But you've got to let me do your hair for you. Man can't cut his own hair right on the best of days. Fair?”

Aramis eyed him slowly. “Have you ever even cut hair before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Porthos replied. And he had-- had done it for his friends back at the Court all the time. “I've even done hair like yours.”

“Like mine?”

“Smooth,” Porthos clarified. All at once he was tired, and couldn't remember if he was trying to prod at Aramis' nerves or not. “Eh, silky.”

“Ah. All right.”

Porthos picked the mirror back up, but Aramis' hand sat limply below the water, blade neglected. An uncomfortable silence descended.

“I apologize,” Aramis said at last. “I should not have been short with you, _mon ami_. You've been--”

“It's all right,” Porthos interrupted, when Aramis' voice began to quiver. “I've had worse done to me than a bit of shortness. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Aramis murmured. “And perhaps-- perhaps you could help me with this. If the offer still stands.” He held out the blade, hand shaking even worse than before.

Not wanting to make too much of it, Porthos took the blade, knelt beside the tub, and set wordlessly to work.

But Aramis' trembling did not lessen once his task was relegated. In fact, it only grew worse, spreading up his arms, taking over his shoulders; Porthos raced to finish shaving him before the tremors grew too violent to continue. Once he finished, he switched the blade for scissors. Working out from where Cagnatto had begun, he evened the length of Aramis' hair, keeping it as long as possible-- which wasn't much past his ears. Even the sections that the surgeon had not hacked into were tangled beyond belief. Aramis' hair had always been _long_ , one of the most notable things about him, and Porthos prayed that the sudden change wouldn't prove yet another source of upset.

But Porthos had no time to assess that, not even to check if he'd cut it well. The moment he took his hands away from Aramis, the man gave a massive shudder, and then at once the trembling overtook his entire body. He hunched instinctively lower into the still-warm water.

“Cold?” Porthos asked. He hoped it was a safe enough question to ask. Aramis thought about it, then nodded. “Let's get you out of the tub.” Aramis nodded again and, with blessedly little fuss, allowed Porthos to help him climb out, towel off, and dress.

But when they were finished, he was still shivering violently. “F-fuck,” Aramis stammered, wrapping his arms around himself.

“You're still—”

“I know. I just d-don't know why. 'm not c-cold. Not badly, anyway. How does m-my hair look?”

Porthos snorted out a nervous burst of laughter. “Looks fine wet, but I think it's gonna stick out a bit when it dries. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-f-four.”

“Twenty-four? You look eighteen, if that. I see why you wore the beard.”

“Wonderf-ful.”

“I'll dry it better,” Porthos said firmly. “Maybe that'll warm you up too.” He pushed Aramis into Cagnatto's abandoned chair, then seized the towel and worked it against Aramis' head, mindful of the healing wound at his temple. Aramis's hair curled as it dried, and the shivering quieted. Satisfied, Porthos took his hands away-- and the shivering promptly began again.

So that was what Aramis needed, in the end: touch. Human contact. Casting aside the towel, Porthos brought his hands back to Aramis' body, rubbing his shoulders, stroking through his freshly-shorn hair. Aramis didn't question it, and Porthos was glad for that. It saved him from coming up with a practical reason why he should be petting a grown man like a cat.

He wasn't sure how long he kept at it. But as time passed, tension seeped out of Aramis' muscles and he slumped down into his seat. In fact, Porthos began to wonder if he was falling asleep.

“Hey, you awake?” There was no response. Careful to keep a hand on Aramis' shoulder, he stepped to the front of the chair.

Aramis' eyes were locked on the floor; tears came steadily down his cheeks. This was not the childish weeping he'd succumb to on the journey to Belley, barely coherent and only half aware of his actions. This was a soldier's grief, quiet and profound.

Porthos pulled away. “Do you want me to give you a minute alone?”

Aramis snorted a laugh. “Frankly, no.” With no beard to block them, the tears slipped right off his chin, soaking into his shirt, dropping into his lap.

Porthos crouched before Aramis, hands on the man's knees. “Do you wanna tell me about it?”

“What's there to say?”

“Look,” Porthos began, heart pounding. “I've no idea what it was like. I really, truly don't. But if you want someone else to know-- you could try tellin' me.”

“You couldn't know. Not unless you were there.”

Porthos bit back a sigh. “Fair enough,” he consented.

“It's not even in my head.,” Aramis murmured. “It's not even a memory. It's in my _eyes_ , like it's burned there. Like when you look away from a candle flame.” He laid his hands on top of Porthos'. “Six or seven of us were dead before we even knew what was happening. We were asleep. I was asleep. I woke when Bernard started screaming. And it was dark. Enough to see the sparks when we fired. The moon was just past full, but the clouds covered it.

“We fought like dogs. I even wounded their leader. Then one of them got me with the butt of his musket. I don't know how Marsac found me, but he did, and he dragged me away from the clearing. We waited for the sun to rise. But when it did-- when we could see again-- I think it drove him mad. He cast off his pauldron. And he left me. He left me there. My _best fucking friend_. He _left me there--_ ”

Porthos opened his arms; Aramis pitched forward and tucked up against Porthos' chest like it was the only safe place left under the heavens.

And Porthos held him. Held him as tightly as he could, while his tears ran their course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know from flashbacks in _The Good Soldier_ that Aramis' hair was much longer at Savoy than it is in series' present time. Therefore, even though cutting it to his ears wouldn't be too much shorter than we're used to it being, it would be a dramatic change within the context of the story. It's my headcanon that Aramis has kept it short(er) ever since Savoy. 
> 
> Also! A visual reference for what a beardless, baby Santiago looks like: http://kissthemgoodbye.net/merlin/displayimage.php?album=31&pid=47858#top_display_media In case you were having trouble understanding why Porthos basically wants to cuddle him better. 
> 
> The moon was, indeed, a few days past full on March 28, 1625. Yay research! Although I don't know if it was actually very cloudy or not. 
> 
> Thanks once again for all your kind comments :)
> 
> French  
>  _salut_ = hi  
>  _mon ami_ = my friend
> 
> Italian  
>  _Buongiorno, figlio._ = Good morning, son.  
>  _signore_ = mister


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for this chapter: vomit, discussions of fasting/fast-breaking/disordered eating

“Did I miss Easter?”

Spread out on his bed (not the floor this time), Porthos started; Aramis had all but wept himself to sleep a couple of hours ago, and they had both been dozing ever since. He hadn't realized the man had awoken.

“Did I miss Easter?” Aramis asked again.

“Eh, yeah,” Porthos admitted, sitting up. “'s the second of April now. Easter was three days ago.”

“They said we'd be home in time for Mass,” Aramis murmured.

“We can go this Sunday,” Porthos promised. Aramis was calmer now, which was good, but his voice had reacquired its hazy, slightly dazed quality. The man's clarity of thought seemed inconstant, ebbing and swelling like a tide.

“All right,” Aramis consented, as Porthos came to his side and sat on the edge of his bed.

He really did look young, Porthos marveled. Aramis' eyes were huge without curtains of hair to disguise them; his chin and jaw were rounder, more boyish without the beard to define them. His appearance tugged at Porthos' heart in a way he didn't fully understand. It was nearly impossible to keep in his mind that this creature before him was a soldier, was a sharpshooter, had taken lives, probably without keeping count. There before him, bruised, betrayed, Aramis looked nothing if not-- _fragile_.

It made Marsac's actions all the more hateful.

They sat silently for a little while. Aramis seemed content-- relatively speaking-- to simply have someone beside him. But when the man spoke again, he sounded clearer-headed, and angrier for it. “Don't feel well,” he grumbled.

“Do you need a bucket?” Porthos tried to keep his voice calm.

Aramis smiled unhappily. “When I say there is nothing in me left to vomit, Porthos, I mean that literally. In fact, I'm about to eat something just so I can be properly sick.”

“I dunno about that, but half the problem might be that you're hungry.”

“I'm not.”

Porthos paused. “Eh-- you've got to know that your body is. Even if your mind's not. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that,” Aramis snapped.

“So will you try to eat? Just a bit?”

“I suppose.” He paused thoughtfully, and then said, “I melted snow for water, but I don't think I've eaten since-- you said it's the second of April?” Porthos nodded. “I haven't eaten since Holy Thursday. What's that, almost six days?”

“Lord. I'm goin' to the kitchens right now. I'll be back, all right?” Aramis nodded.

It seemed like a good sign, that Aramis consented to eating, and consented to being left alone. Porthos was almost hopeful as he made his way to the restaurant. Marie loaded him up with water, bread, and broth; balancing these carefully, he returned to the room.

Aramis was a bit paler than when he'd left. Nevertheless, he seemed to have kept his wits fully about him, and was sitting up with his legs crossed, still covered by a blanket. “That's a deathbed meal,” he mused, eying Porthos' wares.

“It's a sickbed meal,” Porthos corrected. “Tomorrow you'll be on your feet and we'll get you to the restaurant. Get you some mutton. It was excellent.”

Aramis smiled tiredly. “All right.”

Porthos set everything down on the table but the bowl of broth, which he carried to Aramis' bed. “Can you, eh--”

“Yes. I can feed myself.”

“All right.” Not wanting to hover, he passed the bowl to Aramis and returned to his own bed. In the silence, he could hear the spoon scraping. Wondering if perhaps a bit of noise would be less stifling, he forced himself to speak, choosing the first subject that crossed his mind.

“I think Marie is the Captain's former lover,” he declared. “She seemed awfully concerned about him, but never said how they knew one another. He'll be joinin' us soon; I think he should court her again. She's obviously still sweet on him, and I'm fairly sure she's a widow. I mean, she wears a ring, but there's no sign of a husband around; and no black, so it's been at least a year--” Suddenly he became aware of Aramis coughing. Porthos bolted from his bed.

There was so little vomit that it took Porthos a moment to realize what had happened. When he did, he tried his best not to let it faze him. “It's all right,” he said evenly, taking the bowl from Aramis' hand. “You just need to get used to eating again. This was bound to happen the first time.”

Aramis didn't react. He was staring at the puddle in his lap with utter concentration, looked slightly stunned. Porthos stripped away the blanket. He was relieved to see that underneath it, Aramis himself was clean.

Carefully, he carried the blanket to the bathtub and draped it so that the soiled corner fell into the water. “I'm sorry,” Aramis rasped, while Porthos' back was still turned.

“Fuck no. You are not going to start apologizin', or this is all gonna be a lot soppier than it needs to be.”

Aramis fell silent once more. Then: “Why are you doing this?”

“It's dirty.”

“Don't be daft. Why are you looking after me?”

“We're musketeers,” Porthos replied airily. “There's a code or something, in'there?”

“Please stop evading,” Aramis said evenly. “I may be too fucking weak to take broth but I am not a child. Why are you being so kind to me, Porthos?”

Leaving the blanket, Porthos turned back to him. “You make it sound like I shouldn't be. That's actually pretty fucked, Aramis. You think someone needs a reason to care about you?” Aramis said nothing.

“No,” Porthos amended. “You don't think anyone should care about you at all. You think the whole world should have left you in the forest, eh? Well I'm sorry, but I won't.”

Aramis was staring at him steadily, appraisingly. At long last he nodded.

The tension eased from Porthos' shoulders. “You needed a friend,” he offered, softly. _And I did too._ “Ready to try again?”

“No.”

“You won't be sick this time.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I won't talk about the captain's love life this time. I think that's what did you in.”

Aramis laughed, sudden and bright and genuine.

“Poor Captain Treville,” he chuckled. “It's in poor taste to joke about a man in his absence.”

“Fine-- I'll hold off 'til he gets here. But then he's got some points in need of clarifyin'.” Porthos went to the table, casually plucked two rolls from it.

“Imagine if she's his cousin or the like, _mon ami_.”

“Nuh-uh. There's no way.” He handed a roll to Aramis, bit into his own.

“I'll get the story from her tomorrow. I can get stories from anyone.”

“Can you now?” Porthos prompted.

Aramis didn't answer; he waited until he'd chewed and swallowed. “Especially the ladies,” he said, once he'd done so.

Porthos nearly missed the beat, so pleased as he was that Aramis was eating _casually_. “Don't move in on the captain's turf,” he said, saving himself quickly, and Aramis feigned offense, smiling with his mouth full.

In that manner, Aramis ate a roll and a half, and drained the entire pitcher of water.

A storm, predictably, followed the calm. Breaking a fast could be more painful than the hunger itself, Porthos knew, and this proved true now. Aramis' body rebelled.

It began soon after he'd finished his scanty meal; one minute he was fine, the next sweating and swallowing fitfully. Aramis sunk back into bed, small and sick and scared. His stomach waged a war against what it saw as an enemy; the cramps were so bad they left him panting, nearly sobbing with pain.

Aramis was curled up tightly on his side. Before long, Porthos fitted behind him and added his own hands against Aramis' belly, miserable at his inability to help.

But Aramis didn't vomit again, and eventually the effects subsided. In his arms, Aramis relaxed into a doze, and Porthos saw no reason not to stay beside him and sleep as well.

The room was dark, the fire only embers, when Porthos woke to the feeling of Aramis wriggling out of his grasp. “What's wrong?” he hissed, breath catching.

“Relax,” Aramis told him. “I just need a piss. And please don't hold a festival to congratulate me, all right?”

“All right.”

“And get back in your own bed. There's really not room for two.”

“Whatever you say,” Porthos replied, grinning in the darkness.

The next morning, as promised, Porthos hauled Aramis out of bed and to the restaurant, where Aramis ate a (nearly) full meal. On his part, however, he failed to determine Marie's relationship to the captain. Porthos teased him lightly for this poor display of skills, and laughed when Aramis grumbled about _having an off day_.

But it wasn't an _off day_. In fact, it was such a reprieve after the hardships of yesterday that Porthos found himself almost drunk with relief. Still weak, Aramis slept for much of it. But when he was awake, he was in good spirits; they passed the afternoon sitting by the fire in the restaurant, not really conversing with the other guests but enjoying the bustle nevertheless. Even the weather cooperated. Sun streamed in through the windows.

The next day was a bit less charmed; outside it rained sporadically, and inside Aramis sunk into himself once again. The morning was much the same, and they ate breakfast in peace. But when the rain paused and Aramis consented to go for a walk, he changed his mind at the door and said he'd prefer to visit the horses-- alone. He returned hours later, eyes and nose an angry pink.

It was a painful reminder of how close to the surface the man's grief remained; and like an infection, it needed to drain from him rather than fester under the appearance of health. Porthos tried to be supportive. He offered his humor and, that failing, he offered his arms; but Aramis slipped away and burrowed into his bed like an animal into its den.

He had fallen asleep by the time Porthos took to bed himself. But it was a fitful sleep, and throughout the night he heard Aramis wake again and again, this time with a gasp, this time with a sob. As though the nightmares were contagious, Porthos succumbed to them as well. He didn't dream of Savoy, nor of Aramis, but of vague and sinister monsters; dark alleyways, dense forests; sick stomachs and uneven cobbles; running and running and running and running and running but never escaping.

Never being found.

The next morning, their fourth in Belley, neither of them were hungry. Rather than sitting in the restaurant, they built up the fire in their own room and covered the hearth with blankets and pillows. It crackled gently as they camped out before it.

Porthos was glad to have Aramis back beside him; yesterday had not only been worrisome, but abjectly lonely as well. Today, though subdued, Aramis seemed ready once more for company. When sitting grew too tiresome, too formal, he stretched himself like a cat and then settled down with his head on Porthos' outstretched legs.

“You didn't sleep well last night,” Aramis hummed.

“Neither did you.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Nah.”

But the room was dim and cozy and Aramis' body against his was an absurdly comforting thing. Porthos sighed. “It wasn't to do with all of this,” he began at last. “The dreams, I mean. I think one day I'll see it all in them. One day my mind's gonna bring that back up-- that clearing, how it looked. _Counting._ The men with me, strong men, goin' t' _pieces_.

“But I didn't dream about that. I only remember-- bein' afraid. Bein' lost, maybe young. Bein' ill, with nobody there to care for me. Just needin' someone to stop and speak to me. But nobody would.” Porthos shook himself. He was just beside a merry fire, and tried to remind himself that he was plenty warm. “I think I was runnin',” he added hoarsely. “Dunno if something was chasin' me or not. The fear's all I'm really sure of.”

Perhaps he should have forced a smile, but Aramis wasn't looking at him anyway. “What'd you dream about?” he asked.

“Mm. Nothing quite so poetic as yours, _mon ami_. I hear screaming; I smell blood. I watch him leave, again and again. I always know where my dreams come from.” Aramis reached out, pushed a thin branch deeper into the flames.

“When I was sixteen, I fell in love,” he continued, gravely. “We conceived a child, and then we lost it and she left me. I was sixteen the first time my heart was broken. That's not half-bad, I suppose. Twenty-four now, and this can only be the third time. Again, likely better than average.” He craned his neck up to look at Porthos; the flames were captured starlight against the blackness of his eyes. “You, _ami_ , you have the kindness of a man whose heart broke before he could ever know otherwise.”

That broken heart leapt up into Porthos' throat, a story demanding to be told; he held it in as long as he could stand. “Lost my mother very young,” he grunted at last. “Never had a father.” There was more, there was worlds more, but that was enough for the story to settle back down inside him, enough for Aramis to clasp a hand around his ankle, stroking it with his thumb.

For a while, Porthos let himself feel nothing but Aramis' warmth against his legs, the fire's warmth against his face. But eventually, the trance fell away. “I think we'd better go eat something before we spend the whole day here,” he said, gently moving Aramis off himself so that he could stand. Aramis lifted his hands up to be hauled to his feet.

And maybe Porthos pulled him a little too close, maybe he kept him for a minute in a half-embrace-- but if he did, Aramis didn't seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading!
> 
> I did my best to research what Aramis would be going through after five or six days of not eating (but drinking water). By all accounts, he would not be bedridden but would definitely be weak. His hunger pains would have just begun to dissipate, making it easier to continue not eating. After first eating, there would be nausea, but for a “short” fast like this the consensus is that this would not continue. (I have also learned that bread would be a terrible thing to break such a fast with, but I doubt our boys would have known this. Poor Aramis. He's not gonna poop for a while.) I have never done this personally, so if any of this is incorrect, feel free to speak up!
> 
>  
> 
> French  
>  _(mon) ami_ = (my) friend


	5. Chapter Five

It was just before sunset that evening when Treville joined them; they were sitting in the restaurant, rabbit stew before them. Aramis rushed to his captain's side. He was eager as a child whose father had come home from war, and likewise Treville embraced him as a son.

There were tears on Aramis' cheeks when they pulled apart. He wiped them quickly and smiled as he led Treville to their table. The captain shook Porthos' hand warmly before settling down.

“Before I say anything else,” Treville began. “Aramis, how's your head?”

“It's healing. There's a surgeon here, an Italian. He's looked after it.”

“Good. How are you otherwise?”

Aramis nodded forcefully. “I'm well. I'm doing well.”

“And you, Porthos?”

“I'm well. I'm fine.”

Treville's smiled widened. “You're a pair, you know that? Pair of liars.”

“Probably only half liars, sir,” Porthos replied, and Aramis chuckled.

Marie brought them a bottle of wine; Porthos and Aramis could not force her and Treville to engage each other in front of an audience, though they tried for a good while. But slowly, the levity fell away and Aramis grew visibly anxious.

“What did you find out?” he asked at last.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you find out who attacked us?”

“Not specifically,” Treville admitted, and Aramis frowned.

“Not _specifically_?”

“There are reports of Spanish raiders in the area. Everyone I could speak to confirms it. But Aramis, we can't know more than that.”

“That's not very helpful!”

“What would you like me to do?” Treville snapped. “There's no way of knowing which group of Spanish attacked you, and even if there were there's no way of tracking them down. We have no names. We have no details. Savoy was a tragedy but it's a damn poor retaliation plan to go around killing every Spaniard we see.”

Aramis huffed, effectively dissuaded. He stared crossly at his hands. “This aggression, between France and Spain-- it's _pointless_.” He drew a deep breath. “I'm half of Spanish blood, from my mother. As will be the next king, in case the country has forgotten.”

“There are many who share your sentiments, Aramis.” Treville's face had softened. “But it's much more than that.”

“I'm aware.”

Treville considered his musketeer for a long moment; Porthos watched his eyes scan Aramis' injured temple, his stripped-down civilian dress. “Are you ready to ride for Paris tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Aramis said quietly.

“Porthos?”

“Ready when you are.”

“First light then?”

“All right,” Aramis said, and Porthos nearly agreed. Then, in a flash, he remembered what day it was, remembered Aramis' words: _did I miss Easter?_

“Actually, Captain,” he began, politely, “eh, it's Sunday tomorrow. I was hoping we could stay in Belley long enough for Mass?”

Treville frowned. “Didn't think you were much of a church-goer. I assumed Easter was the exception.”

“Can't say I make it every week, but there's-- a lot to pray about now, isn't there?”

“Mm. I suppose I wouldn't argue with sleeping past dawn. After Mass, then.” If Treville saw through Porthos' fib, he still pushed it no further.

Aramis' face, though, made it perfectly clear that he understood Porthos' intentions. He smiled gratefully when Treville looked away. Of course, now Porthos had committed himself to Mass two weeks in a row-- probably for the first time ever-- but that smile, that gratitude, was more than worth it.

The next morning, they rose early. Wanting to leave right after Mass, they tidied their things beforehand, and Aramis groomed himself neatly. With a clean and freshly-shaven face, he trailed Porthos to the cathedral.

Though Belley had proven a small and sleepy town, its cathedral was massive; it pointed up to the heavens with grace and determination. Porthos and Aramis joined the townspeople as the bells rang. It was Low Sunday; the mood was relaxing from the solemnity of last week's holiday. But for Aramis, Porthos reminded himself, this _was_ Easter. It was the Mass he had missed out on, freezing alone on the border of Savoy; and it was a reawakening too. Porthos watched him openly as the service progressed. Aramis' eyes were filled with tears, but his face was raised up, bright and fierce and hopeful.

Back at the inn, Cagnatto returned to assess Aramis' condition. When he declared him fever-free and healing well, Porthos lunged at the surgeon and pulled him in for a massive hug. Cagnatto laughed indulgently and returned it with surprising force. “You are a good man, _figlio_. A good friend to him,” he whispered in Porthos' ear, and Porthos' heart swelled.

When they let go, Aramis stepped forward to embrace Cagnatto in turn. Then, to the surprise of both his listeners, he thanked the surgeon at length in slightly clumsy Italian. This earned him a delighted grin. “S _arete bene, bambino_ ,” Cagnatto assured him, rubbing a hand down his arm. “You will be just fine.”

“ _G_ _razie_.” Aramis' voice was thick; they hugged again.

Once Cagnatto had left, Porthos and Aramis gathered their things. In the restaurant, Aramis kicked Porthos' foot and wagged his eyebrows as Treville favored Marie with a goodbye kiss.

They departed before midday. As before, they rode without cloaks or pauldrons, “at least for the first day,” Treville insisted. But the journey was uneventful. They made their way slowly, stopping often to rest, but Aramis seemed cheerful and not even terribly tired. Though they found an inn for the first night, he insisted that he was fit to camp the second.

It was a well-intentioned decision, but regretfully premature. Aramis curled up by the fire peacefully, with no visible anxiety; inside of an hour, though, he was thrashing, whimpering-- gasping himself awake. Porthos crawled quietly to his side. Shushing patiently, wordlessly, he pulled Aramis into his lap and ran his fingers through the man's sweaty hair.

“F-fucking forests,” Aramis stuttered, face half-hidden against Porthos' chest. “I r-really used to like them.”

“You'll like 'em again,” Porthos whispered back. “When you wake up in the morning and see that everything's all right.”

“Mm. When I wake up,” Aramis breathed. 

But Porthos was fairly sure, though they stopped talking then, that Aramis never went back to sleep. He certainly didn't. And when Treville asked over breakfast why he hadn't been woken for the second watch, Porthos was too exhausted to think of a clever story. He only shrugged, and the captain left it alone.

That day, the journey seemed endless. Tomorrow they'd reach Paris, but tomorrow might as well have been next year for all the comfort that gave them. Porthos half-slumped in his saddle. Aramis' eyes drooped with exhaustion, but he sat stiffly at alert.

“We've ridden far enough today,” Treville said, as they came upon an inn. There were hours of sunlight left, and Porthos was deeply grateful for the captain's intuition. The gratitude only increased as Treville booked two rooms, one for himself and one for Porthos and Aramis. Then he sent Aramis to bed, as he and Porthos saw to the horses.

Porthos was looking forward to turning in early, in the safety and warmth of an actual bed. He opened the door of his shared room eagerly, wondering if Aramis had already gone to sleep.

He had not. Aramis stood, arms crossed, in front of the fire; its light reflected off the tears on his cheeks.

“Hey,” Porthos said quietly, shutting the door behind him. “This time tomorrow, you'll be home. That's something, right? I can't wait to see my own apartment.”

Aramis nodded obediently. But in the next breath, he began to weep in earnest. “I'm sorry,” he bleated. He brought up both hands to cover his crumpling face and stood there, like a child, ashamed and afraid of his own broken heart.

“Hey,” Porthos breathed out. He went to the man's side and gathered him up against his chest, where he had come to fit quite naturally. “What'd I tell you about apologizin'?” After a moment's hesitation, Aramis gave a little moan, then uncovered his face; Porthos stood silently as Aramis sobbed against his shoulder.

“I am sorry, though,” Aramis rasped, after he'd calmed himself down. “I'm sorry for doing this all the fucking time. You're going to get tired of me doing this to you, Porthos.”

“Don't fret,” Porthos soothed. “It's all right.”

“No. I try to be calm. And I am, for a while.” Aramis shivered. “Then it all rushes back over me and I find I'm weeping before I can stop myself--”

“It's all right--”

“It's not all right!” Porthos thought that Aramis might pull away; instead he pushed even closer, shouting hoarsely against Porthos' jacket. “It's not decent of me! We'll be back tomorrow, and I need to just _get over it_ because sooner or later you and the captain are going to get tired of me and _leave--_ ”

“ _No._ ”

And something in that one syllable was enough to stop Aramis' mouth. He moved back just enough to glance up at Porthos' face.

“'m not gonna get tired of you,” Porthos continued, a swell of emotion rising up in his chest as he spoke the words that felt like an oath. “'n I'm _definitely_ not gonna leave. I only wish I knew how to help you.”

There was a long moment in which neither spoke; Porthos stared evenly down at Aramis and Aramis held the gaze with an unexpected steadiness of his own. “You're a genuinely decent human being, have I ever told you that?” Aramis remarked at last. His voice was hoarse but the tears themselves were briefly forgotten. “I'll put you up for a sainthood if I manage to outlive you.”

“Mm. Patron of the Court, or Patron of everyone who's got a card up his sleeve?”

“Don't be such a cynic. You wear a medallion, after all.” And then, with fingers like a lightning flash, Aramis snatched the necklace out from under Porthos' collar.

He stared at it with fascination, and laughed brokenly. “Jude. Patron saint of lost causes. You're my Jude, all right, _mon ami_.”

Porthos' breath caught, forgotten beneath the swell of affection that rose up in him. “Nah. You're not a lost cause, Aramis,” he promised, solemnly, earnestly. “And I'm not your patron. I'm just your friend.”

Aramis seemed to consider that deeply; he went still, fingertips white where he gripped the medallion. Then fresh tears swelled up in his eyes.

“Stick around once we're back in Paris, and I might almost believe you,” he murmured.

Porthos began to breathe again; it came out as a laugh. “I'll stick around,” he swore, pulling the man to him once again. “Course I will,  _ frère _ .”

It was a promise he had ample opportunities to keep: back in Paris, though he had been ordered to stay home, Aramis stuck close to Porthos as often as he could. As before, his mood varied: sometimes he was talkative, cheerful; sometimes he wept. Sometimes he sat silently. Treville still seemed to see Porthos as the best medicine for Aramis. He gave Porthos menial, garrison-based tasks so that he could remain with his healing friend.

And Porthos did, true to his word.

But in reality, it wasn't a hard promise to keep. Their friendship had not begun under typical circumstances, perhaps, but Porthos genuinely enjoyed the man's company. Aramis was sincere and thoughtful, and more than a little devilish to boot. Moreover, he was a man who returned friendship, deeply-- and was willing to prove it.

He got his chance before long. They'd been in Paris nearly two weeks when Porthos finally broke down.

There was nothing special about the day itself. It wasn't an anniversary; it wasn't a birthday. He hadn't even dreamt of Savoy. Nothing specific happened that sparked his memory; grief simply overtook him, at last.

It built steadily all day, waiting for him around corners and in shadows; tears swelled up during roll call, during lunchtime. As he practiced his marksmanship. As he polished his musket. Aramis asked after him; he brushed the question aside, fearful of what would happen if he let himself answer. By the time the afternoon chill was settling, it was all Porthos could do to hold the grief at bay.

He excused himself to no one, simply left. Porthos stumbled back to his apartment, slammed the door behind himself, and burst into tears. He punched the wall. He kicked the wardrobe. Then he sat down at the table, put his head in his arms, and sobbed.

He was far from finished when the door rattled and began to open. Porthos frowned up at it. He couldn't bring himself to care that he'd forgotten to lock it, nor bring himself to worry about who might be entering. All he cared about-- all he _knew_ \-- was the grief. He waited, eyes on the door.

Aramis opened it only halfway, slipped in, and shut it quietly behind himself. He stopped just inside the room, eyes to the ground. “ _Salut_ ,” he mumbled.

“ _Salut_ ,” Porthos replied quietly. “Eh, come in.”

“I didn't know if you'd appreciate the intrusion.”

“You ain't an intrusion.”

“It seemed as though you wanted privacy.”

It was all so fucking _Aramis_ that tears began to fall again, double-time. “Thought I did,” Porthos choked out. _But I was wrong._ “Were you gonna stand there all night?” _Please stop fretting and come hug me already._

Aramis looked up at last, and the wave of comfort that washed over Porthos was stronger than he'd ever have expected. “What happened today?”

“Dunno,” Porthos sighed. “'m just not havin' a good day.” He chuckled; it was wet, weak.

Aramis pulled away from the door, and came to Porthos' side. “There doesn't have to be a reason, _frère_. It's all right.” His hand cupped against the back of Porthos' head, guided it to rest against his stomach. “I'm with you now,” he murmured, “grieve as you need to.”

So Porthos did.

Aramis' presence tempered his weeping. The tears were slow and placid this time, drawing only the barest of hitches from his lungs, bringing only the slightest of tremors to his hands. They soaked into Aramis' shirtfront as the sun receded slowly behind the curtains. Aramis didn't leave his side until the room was almost too dark to see; even then he only pulled away long enough to light some candles. He returned with a cup of water, made Porthos drink it. Then he pulled the other chair up, cast an arm around Porthos' back, and sat patiently as his friend wept once more.

“They were my friends,” Porthos sniffed at last. His cheek was against Aramis' shoulder, and as he spoke Aramis pressed their heads together. “It's just-- god. 's not the first time I've lost someone, but-- _everyone_ at once. It's like I can't-- I can't sort through it, y'know?”

“I didn't know any of them well,” Aramis mused. “I didn't get to know anyone else when-- when Marsac was around.” He snorted. “As you know.” He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Porthos' own. “Will you tell me about them?” Porthos smiled, squeezing Aramis' hand.

He talked for as long as he could manage. They were random memories, no order to them, no running theme except the friendship he'd shared with the fallen men. 

There was Vincent, sitting next to him his first night in the garrison. Striking up a conversation about which alloy was best for swords, so casual and trivial it seemed as though they'd known each other for years.

There was Phillipe. Taunting a group of Red Guards together, nearly staring a duel but somehow playing a game of two-on-two chess instead. They'd never worked that one out.

Alain, who excelled in producing funny little sketches of his fellow musketeers. Posing for one like a wealthy comtesse. Hanging the finished product in the armory.

Reading with Georges. Helping him with the longer words, sympathizing with his struggle all too well.

Losing a bet to Eric-Pierre. Striding through the garrison in nothing but his cloak.

Measuring his height against Big Jules'. Winning.

Racing Thierry on some unimportant patrol. Losing. Laughing.

Sparring with Pascal. Correcting his hand placement. Drinking with Bernard. Carrying him home.

Porthos didn't remember stopping, only waking up sometime later. He was warm in his bed; Aramis dozed on the floor beside him, cheek propped awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. “Hey,” Porthos grunted, swatting at his head. “Don't be a martyr, come up here.” Aramis mumbled wordlessly and obeyed, climbing into the bed beside Porthos and dropping off to sleep the moment he had settled down.

It was unexpected: so deep a love after so deep a loneliness. Porthos couldn't help casting his arm around Aramis, nor bending his neck so that their heads rested together.

Sleep came easily. Aramis would keep him safe, and he'd do the same for Aramis.

The sun had risen when Porthos woke next. He was on his stomach; Aramis had pushed him halfway out of the bed and was now resting contentedly on his side with Porthos' arm still around his waist. The man was snoring a bit, completely asleep.

They were clearly going to be late for roll call, but Porthos felt justified in his tardiness, just this once. Keeping his arm around his friend, he shifted onto his side. Aramis huffed lightly, but his eyes never opened; he tucked up against Porthos' chest and grabbed his sleeve in one hand.

Treville could yell himself blue in the face, Porthos decided; there was no way he was getting up just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: one more chapter left! And yes, Athos will finally have his due time.
> 
> There is indeed a really big cathedral in Belley. I am such a dork.
> 
> French  
>  _mon ami_ = my friend  
>  _frère_ = brother  
>  _salut_ = hi
> 
> Italian  
>  _figlio_ = son  
>  _Sarete bene, bambino_. = You'll be all right, child.  
>  _Grazie._ = Thank you.


	6. Chapter Six

“Vegetables,” Aramis sneered, sliding onto the stool beside Porthos. His first day of regular duty was coming to a close; Treville had reinstated him that morning, exactly three weeks after their return to Paris.

And them man looked ready for it. He had gained back his lost weight, made up for lost sleep, and no longer carried himself like an animal about to bolt. His hair and beard were growing back as well. The beard came in with the addition of a few sparse greys that nobody mentioned, but it made him look the part of a musketeer once more.

His hair, on the other hand, was an unholy mess, not yet long enough to weigh itself down. Though April was ending, the rains were still fully upon them, and the errant downpours and constant dampness in the air only added to the disaster of Aramis' curls.

Porthos found it unfortunately endearing.

“ _Vegetables_ ,” Aramis repeated, a bit more urgently, gesturing at his stew and awaiting a response.

“Mm. Yeah?”

“I don't like them. Serge seems to be joining the vegetable movement, and I for one do not appreciate it.”

“I like vegetables.”

“They taste like dirt.”

“They're earthy.”

“Like dirt,” Aramis repeated. He began picking the carrots from his bowl and depositing them into Porthos' own.

“Suit yourself,” Porthos consented, eating them eagerly. Aramis huffed, and leaned a little to the side, so that their shoulders bumped against each other. Porthos slung a heavy arm around him.

“Treville officially decommissioned Marsac today,” Aramis said suddenly.

His voice was steady, but Porthos tightened his grip up nevertheless and swallowed his carrots. “That wasn't a done deal?”

Aramis shrugged. “Paperwork, I suppose.” He stabbed absently at his vegetable-free stew. “I wonder about him. About where he's got to.”

“You can't be angry with yourself for that.”

“I'm not. I don't even want to be angry with him, anymore.”

“Then don't be.”

Aramis smiled sadly. “You make it sound easy, while you still bear a grudge against a barkeep who told you not to laugh so loud.”

“That man was out of line.”

“He could have left me in the clearing,” Aramis mused, sinking a bit deeper into Porthos' hold. “Could have left me in the night. But he didn't. He pulled me away from the fighting. He bandaged my head and he stayed with me until morning. Why? Why do that and then abandon me anyway?”

“Wish I could tell you,” Porthos murmured.

“There was nothing for him to be ashamed of. There was no winning that fight. If he hadn't gone and hid, he'd have died, and I'd have died with him!”

“Then it seems to me,” Porthos said softly, “that-- no matter what else he did-- he saved your life, Aramis.”

Aramis was silent, and still, for a good long time. Then at last he nodded, and two tears ran abruptly down his cheeks.

It wasn't the last time that Porthos would see him weep. But it was the last time that those tears would be for Savoy, for Marsac.

Porthos rose from his seat, clapped Aramis on the back. “Time for a drink,” he commanded. Aramis wiped his eyes and smiled.

The friendship of Porthos and Aramis had begun with a massacre. Their friendship with Athos began in a tavern brawl. They were just uncorking their third bottle of wine when an uproar began on the other side of the room; Porthos paid it little mind, until Aramis pointed at it, his eyebrows raised.

“Isn't that _Petit_?”

Porthos squinted into the midst of the chaos, and found the familiar face just in time for it to take a hit to the jaw. “He ain't doin' so well,” he observed.

“Are we going to help?”

“Sure. Haven't been punched in a while.” And so, wine abandoned, Porthos and Aramis dove into the brawl.

No one seemed to care who they were hitting, which worked to their advantage. The fight continued, providing a useful distraction, as they surrounded their fellow musketeer and pulled him out into the street.

Athos was well and truly _drunk_. He sank to his knees on the rain-slick cobblestones and gasped for air; his hands bled freely into the puddles below them.

Aramis stared at Porthos, who stared right back at him. They hadn't quite thought about what they'd do with the man once they'd gotten him out of the tavern.

“Eh,” Porthos began, rubbing his forehead as though it would help. “D'you want some water or something?”

“No, thank you.” Even intoxication of this magnitude could not hide the clipped, well-educated mannerisms of Athos' speech. Somehow it made his voice sound even smaller.

Aramis had dropped down beside the man and was checking over his wounds. “None of these will require the needle,” he said at last. “Do you think you can stand?” Athos nodded, and miraculously he could. “Did you start that?” Aramis asked, once Athos had his legs underneath him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Athos said nothing.

“Sometimes you just wanna get hit, eh?” Porthos prompted, gently.

Athos lifted his face to take in Porthos' own. His eyes were wet-- maybe from pain, maybe from drink, or maybe from something else entirely. “Do not presume to know me,” he said coldly.

“You sayin' I'm wrong?”

Pressing his lips together, Athos hand flexed out for his sword, then tightened into a fist when he found it absent. “Whoa, hey!” Aramis cried, throwing his arms up between them. “Take it easy, Athos. He's only trying to help.”

“I didn't ask him to.”

“He can't help it,” Aramis insisted. “Porthos has a bit of a soft spot for stray dogs.”

“I do not!” Porthos yelped, at the same time Athos growled, “I am not!” Aramis chuckled and, with a meaningful glance at Porthos, mimed plucking at the center of his chest.

Athos did not miss the exchange. Despite his drunken choler, his curiosity seemed piqued, and he gestured at Porthos. “Do you wear a identification card, _monsieur_ dog rescuer?”

“Of sorts,” Porthos grunted, and fished his medallion out for Athos to see.

“Hm,” the man snorted, clutching at something around his own neck. “ _Jude de Jacques_. A dog I am not, but I may indeed fall under his jurisdiction.”

“What happened?”

“There was a woman.” New tears came to Athos' eyes, but once again he held them back. “I loved her.”

“She didn't love you in return?” It was Aramis' turn to question.

“She did. But she is dead.” Athos shut his eyes, then after a moment covered them with his hands.

He said no more; they led him home.

Seated at breakfast the next day, Porthos found himself drifting; it felt as though a mere hour or two had passed between seeing Athos back to his apartment and rising to report on time. Aramis, sitting across from him, fared much better on late nights. He was cheerfully gobbling his meal, chatting at Porthos between bites about-- eh. Something or other. At least he wasn't kicking him under the table to keep him awake. Though that might come soon.

So Porthos was briefly confused when his friend stopped talking. He raised his head from his hands at the unexpected silence, just in time to see their new arrival.

Athos slid neatly onto the stool beside Aramis. His eyes were bloodshot with drink and fatigue; the bruise on his jaw was clearly visible beneath his pale beard. Nevertheless his expression was composed. He carried with him a cup of water and a plate containing no more than a breakfast roll. Carefully, he set them down.

Aramis had gone still, as though Athos were a creature not to be startled; moving no more than his eyes, he glanced over at Porthos. Porthos shrugged, and waited.

Athos was clearly aware of the attention-- how could he not be?-- but made a show of breaking open his roll and nibbling at it before responding in any way. Then, at last, he raised his head and opened his mouth with a sigh.

“Woof,” Athos said. His voice was drier than leaves in winter.

Aramis burst out laughing. He clapped Athos on the back in approval; Porthos felt himself grinning as well, caught up in some strange and sudden joy. A tiny, unsteady smile broke out on Athos face. He slumped a bit, leaning into Aramis' hand and giving over to the exhaustion that he'd clearly been resisting.

Aramis moved his arm up until it was slung about Athos' shoulders. He promptly resumed his babbling, either unaware or uncaring that he now had two listeners not following him in the slightest. More awake now, Porthos turned to his food. He began to eat, but not before slipping a slice of ham onto Athos' plate with a meaningful frown.

It wasn't raining, for the first time in days. They had time to spare after eating, and so Aramis dragged them on a walk-- “because you need to wake up, and you need to sober up,” he clarified, pointedly. Porthos grumbled, but in the end was glad of it. There was some sort of happy hubbub in the city: garlands were being hung, poles were being raised, and lines at the bakeries spilled from their doors.

Porthos yawned deeply. “'s something goin' on today?”

Aramis glowered.“Have you literally not listened to a word I've said all morning?”

“Eh, no,” Porthos told him honestly. Beneath his exhaustion, Athos had the decency to look fairly mortified at his own inattention.

“You,” Aramis assured Athos, tucking an arm around his shoulders again, “are hungover and also not used to me yet. You're granted clemency-- _this_ time. But you,” he continued, rounding on Porthos, “next time you lose track of the turning of the year, don't come sniveling to me.”

“What are you _on_ about?” Porthos moaned, secretly delighted at Aramis' implication that he should have known better by now.

“It's the first of May. It's Beltane!” Aramis cried cheerfully. “Flowers! Wine! Girls! With more flowers, in their hair. Bells ringing to keep the witches away and fat old priests shaking in their boots at the though of heathen blood still within us.” One arm was still around Athos' shoulders, and Aramis linked the other through Porthos' own.

“And new beginnings,” he added, the words like wind between his smiling teeth.

Now that it had ended, Porthos mused, it was safe to say: April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of his life. He had spent it sleep-deprived, worried out of his skull for a man he'd just met, and mourning quietly, deep inside him, for the loss of twenty good men. The repercussions of April, of Savoy, would never completely fade.

But, he thought, as Paris erupted with color and joy in honor of May, April hadn't been _bad_. Difficult did not mean _bad_. He was emerging from the trials of the month with a friend dearer to him than he'd let himself hope for-- possibly two, in fact. And so in a strange way, April had been wonderful. Probably one of the best months of Porthos' life.

As though in apology for the long, snowy winter, May was all at once rainless, cheerful. It slipped easily into summer. And in the same manner, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos slipped easily into each other's company, as though there had always been three.

Out of habit, Porthos found himself still watching Aramis for signs of sadness, all too aware of how it could surface unexpectedly. Aramis, though, hardly missed a step. Besides, he had a new identity now: no longer was he the lone survivor of Savoy. No longer was Athos the _petit capitaine_ , either. And no longer was Porthos the child of the Court, the street rat who could make a thousand friends and yet never quite belong.

In fact, they barely had names anymore, let alone sobriquets.

By the time summer arrived, they were simply, collectively, _Les Ins_ _é_ _parables_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sincerely to all who read, left kudos, and especially commented. This was the first chapterfic I've done in a looong time and the first I've ever done at ao3. The positive responses have meant a lot to me :)
> 
> Anyway... Athos! I feel quite badly that he didn't end up being in this story nearly as much as I'd originally intended. Nevertheless, I really like the idea of Porthos and Aramis kind of forcefully adopting him, after they themselves were already friends. (And Athos himself tries not to give a crap about their friendship, but in the end he's so lonely that he goes out on a limb or the first time in forever and accepts it, and he's nervous and beyond shy but they seem so genuinely willing to tolerate him that it actually gives him _hope_ and gah I love Athos so much.) Keep in mind also that this story takes place within a year of Milady's “death”.
> 
> I have another story in mind, set closely after this one and featuring Athos more heavily. But given that the school year is about to begin, I'm not quite sure when I'll get around to it. I also, eventually, want to write something with d'Artagnan!
> 
> Historical notes... at roughly the time that this story takes place, vegetables were indeed just beginning to find their way into the mainstream French diet. Previously, they had been considered peasant food; Porthos, therefore, may have been more used to them than Aramis.
> 
> _Jude de Jacques_ = French name for St. Jude.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Un interminable hiver... (traduction de "Winter, late in leaving" de MDJensen)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182638) by [Ebm36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36)




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